


Powerplay

by Nyssa



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21583690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: Tarrant and Avon get acquainted, warily.
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Del Tarrant
Kudos: 9





	Powerplay

You’ve been on the Liberator for a week when Avon asks you to sleep with him. You’re surprised it took him so long.

"Asks," perhaps, isn’t quite the right word (nor, of course, is "sleep"). Avon seldom asks anyone anything; he couches all his requests in the same language he uses when speaking to Orac – "I want"; "Give me." So it’s not words, it’s just a look in his eye, a quirk of his mouth. Message sent, and acknowledged. 

You’re still trying to suss Avon out. The two of you have been circling round each other, shooting each other wary glances, giving sometimes conflicting orders to Zen (Avon, clearly, is the only one with anything even approaching a rapport with Orac) -- not polite, just careful. Vila, Dayna, and Cally watch, just as carefully and even less politely. It’s odd, really. Dayna and Cally are perfectly capable of taking their fates into their own hands, and even Vila may possibly have rather more going on upstairs than he’s willing to reveal (he could hardly have less). Yet they wait and watch, as though wondering to whom, Avon or you, they should declare their questionable allegiance.

Perhaps it was the same before, as well, with Blake. You never met the man, but you’ve picked up enough intimations to wonder how sincere any of them were in their loyalties. Vila, certainly, is the type to bend with the prevailing winds. Cally seems committed enough to have genuinely hitched her wagon to Blake’s star, though you detect odd ripples between her and Avon, a kind of murky affinity which bears further investigation. Was it simply Blake’s force of personality, his charisma, that had held them all together? Or the plain fact that they had no other place to go? 

Avon, at least, hardly seems likely to have been a slavish follower. You doubt, though, that he’s true leader material, either. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in it, despite his frequent references to “my ship.” It’s been a week, after all, and they’ve done nothing but drift about, picking up sub-space chatter and searching, fruitlessly, for Blake. Occasionally, Vila or Cally remind Avon that they’re looking for Jenna too. Avon nods, absently. 

It’s obvious that his overriding interest is in finding Blake. You might even describe it as an obsession, though the reason for it remains obscure. You wonder. You wonder also what might happen if and when Blake is found. Your own position on the ship is hardly secure yet. How would the uncertain dynamics change if there were no longer two potential “leaders,” but three?

You follow Avon off the flight deck one night. You’re curious. Not particularly aroused, but curious. You prefer women, really, but sex with men has its own charms, not the least of which is danger. It was strictly forbidden at the FSA (and common as dirt). You never got caught, but you always got hard quicker, thinking you might. A bit of a disappointment to learn that the higher-ups mostly ignored such peccadilloes, unless you gave them other reasons to dislike you. 

He doesn’t turn round once as the two of you wind through the maze of corridors to his cabin. He gives no indication that he’s aware of your presence behind him until he pauses before keying in the security code at his door, glancing pointedly over his shoulder.

You smile. “Oh, come on, Avon. You really think I’d break into your sanctuary? That’s Vila’s department, surely.”

“I always assume the worst of everyone.” His lips quirk fractionally. “Especially my friends.”

“No doubt they return the favor,” you reply, and turn your head. He punches in the numbers, and the door slides back.

It’s pretty much as you expected. Cold. Spartan. Singularly lacking in decorative flourishes. Considering that this room has been Avon’s home for more than two years, you can’t help but be struck by the lack of any personal touch. It gives such an impression of transience you’re almost surprised not to see an open travel case on the bed, half-filled with hurriedly packed items of clothing. In a shadowy corner sits Orac, silently blinking.

“I was planning on doing research before retiring.” You turn to see Avon locking the door. “But…” He pauses, letting his eyes wander over you. “I suppose it can wait.”

You throw him a blinding grin. “Are you sure? I was under the impression that the hunt for Blake trumped all.”

He takes a step nearer to you, bringing him close enough for you to smell the leather of his black jacket. “Well now, Blake was always a man who knew how to prioritize. It was one of his few redeeming qualities.”

He’s let his voice drop to a silky murmur that slides teasingly, insinuatingly, into your brain, and his dark eyes hold yours like a tractor beam. It’s damned distracting, though you don’t miss his use of the past tense. 

He kisses you before you can say anything. His lips are hard; there’s nothing of the coaxing, seductive quality common to first kisses (not that you expected roses and poetry). His hands plant themselves on either side of your face, holding your head immobile.

He draws back after a moment and regards you through narrowed eyes, waiting. You pull back slightly, but he doesn’t drop his hands. You reach up and peel his fingers off your face, not gently.

He smiles a thin smile, and you can see the gleam of arousal in his eyes. You’re not surprised; you feel the same. That uneasiness, that edgy competitive charge you’ve felt coming off him from the beginning – it’s catching fire now, flaring into bright, hot desire. You feel your face heat with it, your cheeks reddening where his fingers rested. Whatever else Avon is, he’s decidedly dangerous. And you’ve always found danger attractive. 

But you’re dangerous, too, and you’ll be damned if you’ll let him forget it.

You give him a shove in the direction of the bed, but he’s not having that. He sways but stands his ground, and you kiss him, taking his mouth whilst you settle one hand firmly on his buttocks and with the other massage the prominent bulge at his crotch. The leather is soft, supple, and the feel of his warm, hard flesh beneath it quickly brings you to full erection.

Avon shudders and presses forward, pushing you back until your shoulder blades bump up against the wall. His right hand works its way between your body and his, and then he’s groping you just as you are him, through the cloth of your trousers, until you have to break the kiss and throw your head back, resting it against the wall, eyes closed, hips arching forward into his palm. Pictures flash through your mind – him naked, face down beneath you whilst you mount him, force your way in, grind into him until you’re spent. A glorious, wildly erotic scene to savor in the privacy of your imagination, but you know he’d never allow it, any more than you would allow the reverse. Neither you nor he can afford vulnerability.

You’d like to taste him, too, but you aren’t about to kneel. 

You get his zip open, he lowers yours, and the simultaneous sensation of his hard, hot shaft in your hand and the firm grip he gives you makes you groan. You meet his eyes and see smugness, a kind of triumph. Bastard. He thinks he’s got you. You bite your lip to choke back further sounds, and pull hard, fast.

He sucks in his breath sharply, but you don’t have time to smile because his mouth is on yours again, teeth clashing painfully against your own. You match him, surging back, tongue stabbing forward, and his hand moves faster, tighter, more perfect. You’re jerking him just as effectively, you can tell from his breathless grunts, and all you want is for him to come first.

Instead, you do, though just by a hair. You pump frantically into his grip, and feel him explode a second later, bathing your hand with warm seed. He slumps against you, both of you gasping, and you feel a distant gratitude for the firm support of the wall.

After a moment Avon pulls back with a sharp, decisive movement. He produces a cloth from his pocket, and you and he tidy up, wiping hands, zipping zips, avoiding each other’s eyes.

He tosses the cloth aside. “As I said, I have work to attend to.” His voice is perfectly level. He steps away, turning toward Orac, presenting you with his back.

You feel your face flush slightly at the bald dismissal, though certainly you’d expected no better. It’s his cabin; you can hardly throw _him_ out. “Yes, well, I won’t trouble you, it’s late. Good night, Avon.”

In the doorway, you look back. He’s still standing over Orac, facing away. There’s an odd stillness about his posture, as though he’s listening, waiting. For you to speak, perhaps? To make some overture, some offer of future assignations? So he can accept – elliptically, no doubt, and with maddening equivocation? Or decline, flatly, with disdain cold enough to wither any man’s ardor?

You turn away and let the door slide silently closed behind you.

Back in your own cabin, you take out the image of Blake you obtained from Zen. You already knew what he looked like, of course; one of your instructors at the FSA had even used a hologram of the infamous rebel leader in a lecture on the treatment of political dissidents. But it seemed wise to have a picture to refer to, in case Blake was found and there was any question of his identity.

You study it now. Strong jaw, wide shoulders, clear, direct gaze. Nothing, on the surface, to betray the damage the puppeteers had done to his mind. You don’t know if Avon ever slept with Blake, or even if he wanted to. But you think he did. Maybe he was even in love with Blake. Perhaps that explains the obsessive searching for a man Avon never speaks of in any but the most contemptuous terms.

Or perhaps, you think, as you put the picture away and climb into bed, Avon simply fancies curly hair.


End file.
